


The New Tim Drake

by BloodandFat



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: 13 year old Tim Drake, I just always wanted to, I've always wanted to write about the gap between Jason and Tim, M/M, Teeny tiny Timmy, The rape part is a very tiny part and is attempted and implied instead, also, and I always wanted to exploit a cruel Bruce, but you can really take it either way, it's just to dark and violent, this is platonic, while Bruce somewhat exhibits a kind of sexual frustration, write about that time period
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2019-01-21 05:50:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12450909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BloodandFat/pseuds/BloodandFat
Summary: Tim is what Bruce will make him out to be. And one day, he'll grow up to hate Bruce, just like all the other Robins before him.





	The New Tim Drake

Bruce never thought he would smoke. He considered himself a perfectionist, a man beyond basic human needs such as intoxicants or sex, but it’s a habit he’s picked up from absolutely nobody and he hates that he submits to it every night after patrol. It’s only five minutes of his day and it’s only one clip, but to Bruce, its a symbol of a downward spiral. He feels the gritty and industrial taste of the tar on the back of his throat and he breathes in the smoke and cancer of it all like exhaustion.

And then came Tim Drake.

Bruce had slammed his fist down this time, _no, no more, I refuse_ , to whatever force wished to torture or taunt him like this, but unlike his predecessors this child forced his way into Bruce's life and didn’t understand the meaning of the word _no_ , and he eventually settled into the cave floor like the stalactites themselves, living and breathing in the vicinity of all of Bruce’s previous failures.

Failures. That’s what the Robins was to Bruce. Failed projects. 

Bruce was not unfamiliar with failure. He had failed time and time again with his projects, but not once did he fall in _love_ with his projects. And not even once, but twice. He loved his Robins like only a father could: with his entire heart and existence. They had healed Bruce in ways he thought was impossible for himself. Seeing the two boys, both of them near mirror-images of a young Bruce himself, light up with pleasure, be feverish for life, and fight excitedly by his side, patched up Bruce’s miserable existence. For the first time, Bruce came to love life as they did– until they died at his hands of course. From then on, Bruce despised life with a furious and unprecedented rage. He despised how life provided him with dreams beyond his wildest comprehensions, simply to dash them violently into a million pieces before his eyes, leaving a frenzy of raw hate and self-loathing in it's wake.

But Tim was different. Tim had everything in the world handed to him, but he rejected it all to simply seek out what made him curious. He was not vengeful, pained, and abandoned: in short, he was not Bruce. 

What he was, was that he was beautiful, just budding with opportunity and ambition, and that was exactly the problem: Bruce feared ruining perfect potential. Just as he had done before. 

Bruce had raised Dick into a man who hated him, and he had very literally killed Jason. He took his kids for granted and maybe, Bruce feared, that he just didn’t value them enough to prevent them from hating him. They all were his failures, especially Jason. He was far more a sloppy product when compared to Dick, or at least that's what Bruce would always tell the young child, simply because he was creative and rebellious, and maybe it was poetic justice that it was precisely those traits about Jason that blasted him to smithereens. Bruce had lost another Robin to his own complete incompetence and it destroyed him from within. 

And Bruce’s guilt and anger bled unto his street work. His life was disintegrating and he no longer had a distinct line between home and patrol, mind and control. He was taking his rage out on poor drug-dealers and pick-pocketers. He even sent the wrong people to the hospital, simply because they were _in his way._ He felt as if he was on the Scarecrow’s fear toxin when he’d mercilessly destroyed his opponents and feared no consequence. When morality was not an obstruction.

Batman wasn’t delivering justice. He was delivering fatalities. And what Bruce feared now, was that he didn’t fear _killing_ anymore. He feared and he feared and he wished to God that someone would stop him. 

And someone did. 

Tim Drake was a kid obsessed with the legacy of Batman and Robin, and by having memorized the details of the justice system probably better than even Bruce himself, had set the highest standards for them both. Tim had idolized and idealized what being the dark vigilante symbolized, and he could not stand for Bruce’s indiscriminate violence and lack of civil law. Tim asked, no he _demanded_ , that Bruce stop. And so, eventually, he did.

Tim’s eyes had this way of staring into Bruce’s soul and wordlessly telling him that he was wrong. Even if those eyes were closed, Bruce knew that he was a slave to his own rage and a slave to Tim’s position as his voice of reason.

But Bruce won’t let him know that.

Tim was unanticipatedly different from his predecessors. He was able to be excessively gentle and kind while simultaneously commanding authority, like a mother or a benevolent leader. Tim could be obsessive, insecure, and even cruel, and he had a mind shrewd enough to scare. He was physically the smallest of them all, too, probably a third of both Bruce’s weight and height, and while he certainly didn’t look the part of the “terror of the night”, his skill sure enforced it. Sometimes, Tim’s mannerisms will remind him of Dick’s, but then Bruce’ll remember that’s probably what Tim was purposefully emulating. Tim's main goal in life was to please Bruce after all, and Bruce despised that.

Drake was about 85% snark and 15% poetic eloquence, and there’s even some sarcasm, dad jokes, and advanced tech jargon in there somewhere, but Bruce’ll never know.

Tim has a face of power, the product of being reared by the wealthiest of Gotham, a result of being groomed and raised by the same people that had groomed Bruce as a kid. But Bruce had gone rogue and Tim was still sane.

When they’re on patrol, Bruce can only see the top of Tim’s head, bouncing and bounding relentlessly by his side. He’s only months into his training but his moves have gotten much better. The boy round-house kicks a man before Bruce can, and then looks up and smiles proudly at him, with his lenses whiting out his eyes. Tim loves him, even if Bruce does not.

There’s this urge in Bruce, whenever he sees Tim’s eagerness to please, the urge to exploit that vulnerability and turn the kid into who whomever Bruce pleases. Tim, however competent and intelligent, is in the end, susceptible to whatever Bruce pleased of him. Tim was a kid who would submit wholly to his mentor, a level of loyalty that did not exist in the individualistic and creative Dick and Jason, and he would do whatever was told of him, even if his mentor wanted no good for him.

Bruce knows Tim will grow up to hate him. He’ll inevitably grow up out of his admiration like all the others and despise what Bruce’s done to him. Bruce could love Tim back and invest his entire life behind this boy, but Bruce understood that no one liked being a sidekick forever. Nobody likes being used. Tim will grow out of the wide-eyed, star-struck, opportunistic child that he is and leave Batman like all the rest did.

But then, Bruce realizes then that Tim is what he’ll make him out to be.

Sometimes Bruce hates Tim. He hates how he replaced Jason so easily and how he forced himself into his life. He didn’t ask to be a father again. He didn’t ask to raise another rejected child. Sometimes, Bruce hates how Tim wears a mockery of Jason’s clothing, and how he has the audacity to wear his blue eyes and black hair as if he was Jason’s replacement, or even his upgrade. Bruce hates how he has to start from scratch with this kid, how all the years of training he’d spent on Jason was evident in Tim’s lack thereof, and it reminded him every moment of what he’d lost. Sometimes, Bruce likes it when he says something harsh enough to make Tim’s smile disappear or make his face fall, and sometimes he wants to wrap his hands around his tiny little neck and squeeze the life out of his eyes. 

To kill him before anyone else could.

And then, sometimes, Bruce thinks he loves Tim. He loves how gentle, innocent, and wildly intelligent he is. He adores how small Tim is, how Bruce’s bicep is larger than Tim’s entire torso and how Bruce towers over him when they talk or spar. He likes how, when Tim talks, Bruce forgets his day’s pains and angers. He loves how Tim beautifies his words and voice when he talks to him–- the boy idolized Bruce after all, and the admiration would show in even his speech -–and Bruce loves the eloquence and thoughtfulness of it all. He likes how it distracts him from his own rage and his own cruelty and he loves how the child patches him up with a simple conversation about his day or his schoolwork or a book he'd read.

Tim was an ambitious kid, a future valedictorian, or politician or doctor, whatever he pleased to dabble in. He was obsessed with reading and memorizing and clinically analyzing Bruce’s case works and studies. Tim was the kind of kid who felt the need to understand the inner workings of absolutely everything, and so he didn’t stop until he did.

Bruce realizes that the difference between them was that while he and his predecessors were angry at the world, Tim was in love with it.

When they’re out patrolling, Bruce is glad that Tim’s white-out lenses masks his trusting and expressive eyes. Tim’s eyes distracted him. Tim’s eyes flooded him with guilt. His eyes forced him to come to grips with the issues he’d been trying so hard to avoid confronting.

The kid waits outside with him every night after their patrol while Bruce takes his obligatory smoke, a hobby that’s quickly become habit over the last couple months. While at first, Bruce had tried to hide the habit from Tim, he came to care less and less and eventually concluded that Tim probably didn’t care or even understand what Bruce was doing. But one night, Bruce notices Tim, who's sitting beside him quietly as usual, with his eyes closed and his head tipped back, inhaling the second-hand smoke at the same time as Bruce does. Bruce freezes and Tim, who doesn’t quite understand, naively comments that he loved the smell. In horror, Bruce drops the cigarette and backs off, and Tim backpedals instantly, joking about his own weird habits and how he was kidding. Bruce makes it a point to never smoke in front of him again, but he also understands that while Tim will never mention the conversation again, he will mentally catalog the incident to dissect later and will no doubt never forget it.

Tim is what Bruce makes him out to be. And one day he will grow up to recognize all of Bruce’s shortcomings, like him tossing second-hand smoke at a prepubescent, for example, and despise him for it.

The socialites of the city seem less than surprised when Bruce presents them with yet another black-haired, blue-eyed little boy at their social gatherings, but they take Bruce’s excuses with grace. These socialites seem to like Tim most and it’s hardly surprising–- they must be able to subconsciously sense that he was bred by Gotham’s best, just like themselves. Tim didn’t need to fake his caste like the rest of the Robins. He was a product of wealth and privilege already. His parents had taught him wonderful etiquette and he can tell the sitting wines that Alfred serves them apart distinctly. He can tell you why the Cabernet Franc is better than the Cabernet Sauvignon, and he’ll even teach you how to make his parents’ favorite kind of red-wine: the Bordeaux style. He impresses them with his perfectly practiced, snotty mannerisms and his wide range of knowledge and vocabularies to color a conversation with. 

They all pull his cheek as they praise how sweet and pretty he is, _just like his father,_ they say, and Tim fakes shyness. 

“So many little boys,” a pharmaceutical CEO who Bruce doesn’t like too much, Frank Demir, jokes offhandedly, one night in particular. He’s standing with a beautiful woman, one he no undoubtedly met just hours ago and was planning to take home that night. She's absolutely jittering under his attention. Frank smiles and puts a hand on Bruce’s shoulder, “Whatever happened to your other one?”

“Grayson is currently leading a military operation in Turkey, as you may have heard,” Bruce replies with a strained smile himself. 

“Oh, I know _that_ ,” the handsome man chuckles, “I meant the other one. The… misfit. Todd, wasn’t it? Quite the interesting one he was. You told me he was in rehab right?”

“I don’t think I ever said that.”

“Oh right. Forgive me. It must’ve been some tabloid I read, I suppose. Didn’t he run away?”

Bruce is impressed by his own patience. He thinks had he been Batman, and had Tim not been around to ground him, the man would’ve had his head smashed into the crystal carafe he was pouring himself a drink from, “I don’t remember you being an integral part of my family, Mr. Demir. Why are you so interested?”

Frank chortles, “Oh, was simply a question Mr. Wayne! I know a troubled man when I see one, and frankly, I never expected you to be on my givings end! I simply wanted to say that you can never ground someone who doesn’t want to stay--”, his smile breaks as he spots Tim, not too far from them, and he motions him over, “Well! The least you could do was introduce him to me.”

Tim’s wearing a pale-blue sweater-vest tailored purposely to match his eyes and make him look even younger. He’s got a half-eaten bruschetta in one hand and has crumbs down his front. Upon seeing the man, he folds the appetizer into a napkin and sets it aside to shake the man’s hand, smiling.

“Nice to meet you, Mister Demir.” Tim makes it a point to memorize the guest list before coming.

The man pats his cheek affectionately, “Hello, Timothy. Please, call me Frank. I’ve heard great things about you.”

“I must say the same,” Tim replies diligently, “Brusey Incorporated is doing better than ever I hear.”

The man laughs and just looks down at the kid fondly, “Bruce just keep the boys coming, doesn’t he? It seems as if just yesterday I was having the same conversation with Jason! Well, almost the same.”

Tim doesn’t miss a beat, “I’m sure he regrets not being here as much as I do. Maybe next time.” 

“Next time, of course,” Frank says, offhandedly.

Tim is called over by another socialite. He grabs his bruschetta and waves to Frank, “It was nice meeting you!”

“Precious.” Frank notes once he’s gone and Bruce can’t help but intercept the compliment as condescending, “I applaud you, Mr. Wayne! You’ve done better with this one.”

Bruce cannot reply and the man takes the hint and gives his thanks before walking off. As he does, he can hear Frank mummer to the woman with him, just below his breath, _try not to lose him too_. 

The rest of the night seems like a blur. But Bruce’s nights have always seemed like blurs. The difference today was that Bruce’s got this disgusting, bitter taste in the back of his mouth that he can’t get rid of.

They’re in the car now, driving home, and Tim’s fallen asleep in the leather seat beside him, instantly.

When they get out, Bruce ignores Alfred’s questions and heads to his room immediately. He spends a few hours just lying there, staring mindlessly at his ceiling, his Givenchy suit wrinkling. He has to think. Recollect his mind. Calm down before he killed someone. 

Somewhere in Bruce’s mind, in some odd hour in the night, he acknowledges that he was probably over-reacting. But the only thing he’s sure of, the only decision he’s able to ground himself with, is that he knows that he has to end it all now. He understands that his facade had gone too far.

“Good job, Master Tim,” Bruce can hear Alfred praising as he approaches the outdoor kitchen, “The ciabatta rose perfectly.”

Tim does that kind of smile, the one where it’s a huge grin and he’s biting his lower lip at the same time. “I messed up sifting the semolina.”

“Well, it was your first time, and I’ll say it’s even better than Master Dick’s. But maybe not Jason’s.”

“Jason cooked?”

“Oh, yes, he did.” Alfred chuckles. He notices Bruce standing at the door-frame and motions him over. “It was one of his rarer docile pursuits. Jason’s ciabatta was wonderful wasn’t it, Master Bruce?”

Alfred doesn’t notice Bruce’s stony silence. He’s too busy with Tim, who’s so preciously smiling up at him as he chatters away about his experience with Brioches and Fougasses and Bruce notes that Alfred absolutely adores him.

Their outdoor kitchen was on the third floor’s balcony, complete with brick floors, open pits and stylish clay stoves. The night insects chirping serve as background for the old classical music that Alfred’s chosen, or maybe Tim’s chosen it, and a large flame beats against the night sky. The two of them take his ciabatta from out of the fire-pit and continue to chatter, ignoring him. The air smells like warm, toasted bread and herbs.

Tim had slipped his way into Wayne Manor and taken absolutely everything as his own. He even had the audacity to bake beside Alfred when it should’ve been Dick or Jason. As if he was as good as Dick or Jason. He was wearing _their_ mitts and _their_ aprons and using _their_ pots and _their_ pans. There are even books from his library spread across the patio tables, books that were Dick’s and Jason’s, books they never got to finish.

He’s even in uniform. He’s wearing the spandex pants and vest, but he’s ditched the face mask, the cape, and the armor plates, and he walks around wearing it all so easily. 

Bruce feels sick, as if he’s under some spell. 

Tim cuts a piece of the ciabatta, tops it with molasses, ghee, and cinnamon, and hands the plate to Bruce, “Do you want to try it?”

He feels so sick, so sick. Tim’s translucent eyes seem like the only color he can see in the entire room. His sky-blue eyes are open and trusting to the world, he’s opportunistic and merciless and he wants it all.

Bruce had wanted it all once.

Suddenly, all he can see is rage and suffering. He turns on Tim, the _plague_ in his life that refused to let him heal, and Tim backs up instantly. The plate falls and breaks. Alfred, recognizing that look in his eyes, jumps between them to shield Tim, bellowing, _No, Master Bruce!_ but he’s far too late. Bruce has already leaped. He’s much faster than Alfred and he’s faster than Drake could ever be, and his massive fist, aimed for a nerve punch, hits Tim's chest, hard enough to stop his heart.

Tim darts out of the way last second, barely, and compresses himself to the best of his ability to minimize the effects of the impact.

For a fleeting second, Bruce is proud. He taught him that.

Tim takes a step back, with a hand to his chest, on the area of his vest where Bruce has ripped it. His face is unreadable, and he doesn’t cry. _He wasn’t hurt too bad,_ Bruce manages to assess, and then Tim runs. He’s tearing off the rest of his uniform.

Bruce doesn't stop him.

Alfred watches him leave with wide, haunted eyes.

Tim doesn’t know where he’s going but he ends up at his father’s apartment. Jack Drake opens the door and near immediately spits, “Leave.”

Tim digs into his pocket and shoves into his hands a roll of bills. Bruce often gave him a stipend, for public appearance mainly, that of which Tim had no use for and would often send to his father under the presence of his “salary”. 

“Here’s how much he’s paid me for my work. The internship is going great--”

 _"The internship is going great,"_ he mocks, “What do you actually _do_ , Timothy?”

Tim has no answer for that.

“You’re so focused on your own needs. What about your old man–-”

“I’ve always sent you what I've earned-–”

“I don’t need money from my own kid,” he sniffs. The man’s hurt and angry, “I wanted _you_. Don’t you think your father needed a little more moral support after your mother’s death? Don’t you think I needed you?”

“I didn’t think--”

“Of course you didn’t think. You never think!”

“I– fuck, you’re _dating_ someone already, I assumed you were moving on-–”

“How fucking dare you--”, he interrupts, enraged, “You left when the things got rough to a man who could better provide for you. You didn’t give a shit about your mother.” 

“No, _what_ , I-”

The man backhands him with a loud smack before he can finish, and Tim’s cheek blooms into a red hand-shaped imprint almost instantly. Tears manage to well up in his eyes this time, but he carefully controls them. He faces his red-faced father, completely composed, and understands that deep down, his father probably regrets it, but Tim regrets it too and then he just _bolts._

He refuses to return home.

He runs the streets of Gotham until he reaches the Wayne Corp’s work foyer. The sun was setting. The building had a bus service that he could easily access the loop for. He could use it to somehow find a way to his aunt, who lived far outside the outskirts of the city. Tim knew the loop would probably be closed by now, but he prayed he could get into the foyer lobby so he’d at least have a place to sleep for the night, off the streets. Gotham was not a safe place for a kid at night, that he understood, no matter how capable he was.

But to his destain, the main door was being locked just as he arrived. 

“What do you want, kid?”

“I…Ieft my briefcase and my case works inside the building. It’s real important. It’s for Bruce Wayne actually. I’m his ward.”

The man looks at him with surprise and for a moment he thinks the man’ll let him in. But the man shrugs offhandedly, “I’m sorry, man. We have strict protocols. You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”

“I–I,” Tim’s throat goes dry, “I really needed…I really needed the work. I have nowhere else to go,” he admits and he doesn’t know how he’ll explain why.

“I’m sorry, kid,” the man says again, locking the last bolt and Tim is furious that he didn’t bring his utensil kit with him so he could simply pick the locks and disable the security system to get in. “We’re open tomorrow, you know. Just come then.” The man pockets the key ring, and Tim seriously considers knocking him out and robbing him, but as desperate as he was to sleep off the streets that night, he had no real urge to sleep in jail instead. Or be forcibly sent back to either house of his. “Now you’re going to have to get off the property, kid, before I turn on the head security system.” The man grabs Tim’s arm and drags him down the stairs unto the street sidewalk below, “Now leave.”

“Where do I go?” he cries, frustratedly.

“You’re a child,” the man barks, “Go home.”

Tim feels alien to the city he prowled at night. He knew the city by its rooftops and dark alleys, where he and Bruce couldn’t be seen, and he’d only known the rest as a collective light. He’s never walked the lighted sidewalks and he hates how powerless and mediocre he feels without his costume and weaponry. He is deft and quick, he reminds himself, but it feels like hollow praise. His clothing is restrictive and heavy and does nothing to protect him against the soot or the cold, and he doesn’t even have a spoon to use as a weapon. He feels like an idiot leaving the manor without taking some money or even a phone.

Tim passes an alley and sees three enormous men deep inside, with one holding a spiked military mace and another with a wooden club. They were beating a man, a homeless man it seemed, to death. The three men were laughing hysterically and screaming, and while it was near impossible that _someone_ hadn’t seen the crime yet, no one dared to stop them. No one cared. The homeless man looks as if he’s lost some teeth, but it’s impossible to tell in the bloody mess. He raises up a shaky arm and just screams, but the sound cut off by the spiked mace coming down again and then all Tim can hear is the gargle of blood.

He and the beaten man make eye contact for a split second. Before he even knows it, Tim is sprinting towards them.

Leaping mid-run, before any of the other men recognize his presence, he catches the largest offender’s neck in a chokehold. The man retches and drops his mace. The other man immediately attempts to snatch him off and Tim kicks him in the mouth while still latched onto the bigger’s neck. There’s an awful crunch under the sole of his boot and the man screams and falls. Tim leaps off the larger man’s back and lands on the fallen man’s stomach, feet first, incapacitating him.

The other goonie is unfazed by his partner’s fate when he charges at Tim almost immediately with the bloody club, which Tim manages to smack out of his hands when it comes down on him. He delivers a kick to his stomach and groin, and an additional beating with his own bat has him down and nearly unconscious. Tim snaps the bat in half with his knee for good measure, which was an awful move once he remembers he forgot about the largest of them all who is bolting towards him now, face mad with rage and horrifically sadistic.

A bat couldn’t have done anything anyways, he realizes quickly, and even he’s smart enough to realize he was absolutely no match for that kind of brute strength, and so Tim darts towards the mouth of the alley. He reasons he can grab the homeless man and just run, maybe reach a hospital, but the man snatches him by his waist while Tim’s mid-run, and hurls him against the brick wall. He hits it with an awful _whack_ and is momentarily blinded by white.

He can feel blood pool and then roll down his face almost instantly. All he can see is white. He’s broken his nose and his shoulder screams with pain. He’s torn a tendon, he realizes, and then the man picks him up off the floor by his neck and slams him up against the brick wall. He’s got both of his hands on his throat, though he could easily cup it with only one, and he squeezes, crushing his windpipe. He struggles and attempts to cry out but he’s absolutely nothing compared to the man who had to have been three-times his weight and height.

Tim thinks he’s going to die when finally the man lets go.

He hates it when he breathes in desperately and the exhaled breath comes out as a horrible sob. He’s trying his best to shield himself and he’s trying his best not to cry, and he’s trying his best to control his violent tremors, and he wonders about how quickly his night went to shit. He was just baking a few hours ago.

Tim thinks the man wants him dead, but then the man’s smiling at him in a sickeningly sweet way and he grabs Tim’s shirt and just about rips the front in half from the seams. He’s got one enormous hand down his back, and another one in his hair, which he yanks so Tim is forced to look up at him. “Oh goodness, gorgeous, are you crying? Good. This’ll make this so much better.” and Tim is blinded with terror. 

But then there’s light and the hands are off his throat and waist, and Tim can breathe.

The spiked military mace is in Batman’s hand and he’s savagely beating the man with it. 

“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” he’s moaning between the hits. There’s blood streaming down his face and his face quickly becomes unrecognizable, “I didn’t know he was _yours_.”

The mace must not be enough because Bruce tosses it aside and his fist goes in rapidly. There’s an awful crunch and the man’s legs give out and he collapses.

Tim looks at him and just _sobs_.

Batman comes up to him and kneels to assess the damage.

Tim’s eyes are clenched shut, and even though he attempts to control his tears like he attempts to control his blood, they both streak down his face regardless. He’s trembling badly and his expression is devastated, defeated, and…embarrassed?

The bloodied homeless man is crumpled to the side, looking terrified and stricken, but he seemed much more concerned about the state of the kid who’d saved him over his own. He looks at Bruce, horrified and uncertain, for affirmation.

Bruce kisses the top of the boy’s forehead, ignoring his flinch, ignoring his blood, and says, “Good Job. I’m proud of you.” It’s the best he can manage and it’s good enough.

..................................................................................................................................................................................................................................

Tim’s eyes are not as bright as they used to be. They’re more clinical and detached. Bruce knows well that he’s the one who’s done it to him, just as he’s done to all the Robins before, but the change is not necessarily a bad thing, he supposes, and if Tim begrudged him for taking the light out of his eyes, he doesn’t express it. He’s always been the forgiving type.

Yet, Bruce knows Tim is still the brilliant and adoring child he’d taken under his wing just months ago, and Bruce envies and admires his resilience. He realizes now that whatever flaw he himself had, Tim recognized, capitalized on, and made up for it for the both of them and maybe that was the very reason the two of them were still going: he was able to forgive and forget.

Bruce burned his cigarettes in the same fire-pit Tim uses to bake another ciabatta. The cigarette smoke mixes with the spices Tim uses, and while it bakes, the two of them breathe the smoky mix of the herbs and tar in like cancer and exhaustion.

The patrols blend together. Tim roundhouse kicks yet another villain before Bruce can. He’s more graceful and faster than ever and Bruce finds himself flooded with pride. Tim smiles at him and this time, Bruce wished the cowl didn’t mask his expression. They bowtie the gang and leave them just as the cops show up, escaping to the highest buildings of Gotham. Tim strips off the collar around his neck, his cowl, and then his arm braces, and Bruce doesn’t stop him. A collection of bruises line his throat like a necklace, and his forehead and arms are gritty with scars, but he wears them all with pride. He’s looking over the city as if he’s seeing it for the first time. He looks star-struck, gazing over the city lights and pollution with an expression of adoration similar to the one he wore when he’d talked to Batman for the first time. Kind of like the way he looked when he talked to Bruce for the first time. He’s in love with the city and everything it stands for. Just like Bruce had been one day.

The powerful breeze feels incredible at this height and the first time in years, Bruce is grateful he has someone to look over the city with.

The sun dips beyond the horizon and bathes them in an array of brilliant colors until they all fade into the blue night, drowned out by city’s muted pulsing lights, and Bruce is content.

The Bat signal lights up in the distance and Tim’s already got his mask and armor on and has leaped off the building. Bruce follows him and he feels like he’s under a spell again. Tim’s excited smile is like a bright beacon that leads Bruce towards their next folly, and when he turns to face Bruce, mid-swing, his translucent eyes are the only color in all of the night.

Bruce knows it will end the same, because all the Robins leave or die the same, but he thinks that maybe the experience doesn’t have to be.

**Author's Note:**

> I think it's absolutely wild that Bruce was so afraid that Tim would grow up to hate and resent him, but in the end, Tim never did. Bruce was also afraid that Tim would die on him but Tim never did: it was _Bruce_ that would die on Tim eventually, the only Robin to lose their mentor. And in that way, Bruce really didn't do that bad this time.
> 
> also, feedback is food for the soulz.


End file.
